


Untitled

by scatterglory



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-13
Updated: 2010-01-13
Packaged: 2017-10-06 05:57:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/50420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scatterglory/pseuds/scatterglory





	Untitled

The first time Rodney sees him, hunched over his drink in the dive of a bar, unshaven and shaggy, rumpled and dirty, Rodney can't even bear to look at him for more than a handful of seconds. Clenching his jaw so hard it hurts, he leaves the way he came without ordering anything.

The second time, he's prepared. He's spent two days doing research, using various contacts to find and scope out the neighborhood and apartment building of his target. It's in a rundown part of Brooklyn, not so bad that you have to watch over your shoulder in broad daylight, but sketchy enough that you're definitely playing the odds if you stay out too late, too often. Rodney thinks that's what his target likes about it—the slight but constant edge of danger. Or maybe it's just a death wish, weakened yet perpetuated by some erroneous sense of survivor's guilt.

Armed with knowledge has always been Rodney's favorite way to approach a situation, rather than trusting in the universe to take care of him, as was the typical policy of—Rodney shakes his head to banish that train of thought. It won't help either of them if he begins by dredging up the past. This is about the future.

He goes back to the bar, and is rewarded with the same scene he'd encountered two nights before. Rodney chooses a dark corner and orders the bar's pathetic excuse for a microbrew, nursing it for almost two hours. At approximately 1am, Rodney follows his target, who weaves slightly under the influence of five large, tasteless draft beers, out of the dim bar and into the street.

His target turns down what Rodney knows is a back way to his apartment and stumbles slightly against the wall. Rodney seizes the opportunity to step in and offer support, receiving a clumsy elbow in his gut as a reward.

"G'way, don' have nothin'."

"I'm not trying to rob you, Colonel. I'm just trying to help," he says, calculating the exact mixture of crispness and snap to put into his tone.

The bloodshot eyes try once, twice to focus on him, disbelieving. "R—R—M'Kay?"

"None other. Now, let's get out of this alley and somewhere we can talk."

Colonel (almost former, actually, but that's neither here nor there) John Sheppard snarls slightly and tries to push Rodney away again. "Fuck off."

Rodney raises an eyebrow in spite of himself, but remains silent. He looks calmly, measuringly, at the other man, until Sheppard exhales in irritation and leans his weight onto Rodney's shoulders.

"Fine. S'pose you know where—"

"I do."

* * *

Sheppard's apartment is a fine example of truth in advertising, and Rodney hasn't seen so many festering pizza boxes since he was in college. The already-sobering Sheppard collapses onto a couch that's an entire color family away from its original shade, and Rodney gingerly settles into the badly-upholstered armchair with the fewest number of visible holes.

Sheppard stares at him hostilely, without speaking. Rodney takes a deep breath and leans forward earnestly, placing his elbows on his knees.

"We both know why I'm here."

Sheppard remains silent, but his sneer speaks volumes.

Rodney's never been good at beating around the bush, and figures that now is no time to start. "I'm leaving in three days, and you're coming with me."

This surprises a laugh out of Sheppard—a dark, bitter snort that curls Rodney's toes.

Rodney barrels ahead. "Listen, I know you needed time to get over what happened—hell, we all did—but the past is the past, and you've got to let it go." God, that sounds terrible, even to him. He winces, and tries again.

"What I mean is, it wasn't your fault, and no one blames you, and we need your help." He meets Sheppard's eyes, trying for sincerity, and feels the contempt he sees there cut through him like a cold wind.

"Well, you say all the right words," Sheppard drawls. "Good golly, McKay, I see now I've been wrong all these years. I've love to sign right up and ship out with you ASAP."

Rodney feels his face beginning to flush. "Of course you've been wrong! No one EVER blamed you, not even once! No one except for—"

"Except for me? And maybe, except for you?" Questions that aren't. Rodney can't meet Sheppard's eyes.

"I—" Honesty. He knows as certainly as he knows his own theories that honesty's the only thing that can save this. Damn Heightmeyer anyway—he'd have asked for a replacement years ago, if she wasn't always so right. "You're right. I did." He meets Sheppard's eyes, blue to hazel. "But I don't any more. I haven't for four years, eleven months, and 359 days."

Sheppard knows what that means, and his mouth twists. "What, you waited till I'd safely applied for the extended leave of absence and was back on Earth to forgive me?"

Rodney shook his head. "It took me that long to realize that none of it had actually been your fault. I'd forgiven you even before Carson told us she—" He breaks off. Six years, almost exactly to the day, and it still hurts to talk about her. He sees the pain flicker through Sheppard's dark, secretive eyes . . .

"Sheppard." He pauses. "John."

Sheppard actually flinches. Rodney almost does too—it's not fair, using his pain and anger and guilt like this, but he has no other choice.

"John, I wasn't there when—when it happened, but I was there when they found you." His voice breaks. He takes a deep breath, and continues as gently as he can. "There was nothing you could have done."

Blood, so much blood, some of it John's, most of it not. She'd been—her body has been under his when they'd rolled him, unconscious and moaning, onto the stretcher. Rodney'd seen the piece of bulkhead sticking out of her abdomen, and he'd known even before Carson had made it official.

"It was a fluke, a random short-circuit. It probably wouldn't have been a problem, but with the shields and weapons systems straining all the conduits, and the ZPM containment issues we'd been having, it was only a matter of time till something blew—"

The explosion had ripped apart that part of the hallway, shattering metal like glass. At first, Rodney couldn't believe that Sheppard had survived; he'd only been a single pace ahead of her. Carson surmised that both sides of the hall had blown, knocking them to the floor. She had just been the unlucky one to land on the dagger-sharp, serrated piece of shrapnel . . . and Sheppard had landed on top of her, driving her down . . . No one had said it, not even once. They hadn't needed to.

Sheppard doesn't say anything to him, but Rodney knows—I should have been behind her, guarding her; I should have let her go first; it should have been me. The fact that it hadn't even been the result of a direct attack made it worse—Rodney knew that Sheppard couldn't accept the randomness of the tragedy. Which made it impossible to move on.

Emotionally, at least. He'd accompanied the body back to Earth for the state funeral, and submitted his request for an extended leave of absence en route. Rodney hadn't been able to attend the funeral—taking over as interim, and later official, civilian head of the Atlantis mission outweighed all other concerns. He'd been shocked to hear what Sheppard had done—shocked and betrayed, but also relieved and guilty and sympathetic. He'd figured Sheppard could use the rest, time to regroup and recharge; it would probably only end up being for a few months, anyway, and he knew it was wrong but he didn't think he could handle seeing Sheppard for the next while, at least. So he put it out of his mind until the newest wave of attacks were over, and then there were repairs and scouting missions and they needed food, and there were reports to oversee and new technology to explore and if he sometimes woke up sweating at the memory of a lazy drawl and smug half-smile, it was probably a byproduct of job stress and he'd always forgotten the dreams by morning.

Always.

And now Sheppard's sitting in front of him, and they might as well be in different galaxies with a river of blood between them because Rodney can see that his words are as far and as distant and as cold as the stars.

He casts around, grasping desperately for the words that will make Sheppard see how much they need him. "The Wraith have teamed up with the Genii. They both finally realized that they want us dead more than they want to kill each other. We've been keeping them at bay, but we need—"

"No." Sheppard shakes his head. "You wouldn't have survived this long if you really needed me. I'm sure Lorne's got everything under control." His face is blank, revealing nothing. "Why don't you tell me why you're really here?"

"Your five years are almost up." Well, it's true, at least, even if it's not really an answer.

Sheppard nods solemnly. "In three days."

"I'm here to get you to change your mind and come back before then."

"I figured."

"We really do need you—" he begins pleadingly, and trails off. "I really need you," he mumbles, lowering his eyes to the floor.

Sheppard remains motionless, but Rodney knows he's been heard. There's a tension in Sheppard's body that has nothing to do with what they've been discussing, and Rodney throws arguments and reasons and logic out the window,

"God, John," he moans as he closes the distance between them, abandoning the chair to fall to his knees in front of the couch. He reaches up with both hands and pulls Sheppard's—John's—face down to his, covering John's mouth with his own, and god, it's been almost five years and he forgot how good John tastes, and then John pulls away and stares wordlessly at him. They're both breathing heavily, and John's face is raw and open and he's lost and hurting and Rodney buries his hands in John's hair.

John shuts his eyes and Rodney slowly pulls him forward, murmuring wordless reassurances until their lips touch again. This time, he goes slowly, teasing John's mouth open with his tongue and gently pressing inside. John makes a sobbing noise in the back of his throat and Rodney feels something wet fall on his own cheek. John brings his hands up shakily, running them over Rodney's shoulders like he's afraid to hold on. Rodney pushes forward and off the floor, tipping John back along the couch until they're laying with their legs entwined, Rodney's body covering John's and their mouths still joined in that slow, gentle kiss.

The first time Rodney had touched John had been just after the first time John had touched Rodney—Rodney hadn't been about to let that heat-of-battle/hooray-we're-still-alive kiss go without comment, except the comment had really been more of a handjob in the back of the jumper once Teyla and Ronon had left. From there, it had been quick jerk-off sessions that had moved on to stolen blowjobs. John had spent his first night in Rodney's quarters three days before the explosion.

Rodney ends the kiss by moving to John's jaw and down his neck. John's completely hard beneath him, and Rodney grinds their erections together, slowly. He feels John's moan in his throat as he licks a line along John's pulse.

John's thinner than Rodney remembers, not that they'd actually explored each other much. This whole kissing thing is new, too—it had been far too intimate, too suggestive of things best left unmentioned, but right now, Rodney doesn't care and John's nipples are sensitive even through his shirt. Rodney's breath is hot and wet, discoloring the material before he slides it up over John's belly and covers one small mound with his mouth. He swirls his tongue around and around, running his hand up and down John's stomach, making John whimper. One of John's hands is buried in Rodney's hair, the other is thrown up over his head, hanging off the couch. John's eyes are screwed shut, his head tilted back and his throat exposed, his face a mask of what looks like pain even as he writhes underneath Rodney. Rodney abandons his current efforts and slides back up John's body until they're face to face, legs still entwined, Rodney on his side and pressed into the back of the couch, John on his back with his eyes still shut as tightly as possible.

"John. John, look at me."

John flinches even though Rodney speaks softly, and doesn't move. Rodney traces his thumb lightly over John's lips, cradles John's cheek in the palm of his hand. "John, please."

John's eyes flutter open as he draws a trembling breath, and looks nakedly into Rodney's eyes.

"It's okay. You're okay. I'm here, and we're together, and you're going home—"

And John's shaking, sobbing silently as Rodney wraps both arms around him and pulls him close, holding him tightly as they both shed the pain and hurt and loneliness of the last five years.

* * *

Rodney wakes up when a ray of sun falls across his face. Somehow they made it to the bedroom, and he's just grateful that John's housekeeping skills are slightly more fastidious when it comes to his sleeping quarters. John's already awake, and looking at him solemnly.

"Morning," Rodney says, trying to shake off his usual morning lethargy enough to maintain the connection they'd had the night before.

Face serious, John runs his hand down Rodney's side and stops on his hip. "You know, I never said I'd go back with you."

Rodney rolls onto his side so they're almost touching, and he can feel the heat radiating off of John's body already. "I've still got two days."

Then John smiles, a small, hesitant, shy quirking of the lips as he leans forward and pulls Rodney in until their lips only just brush.

"You'd better get to work, then."

Fin


End file.
